


On No Account Brood (Over Your Wrongdoing)

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex (kind of?), M/M, Mexico, Multi, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Stitches, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles, Rachel and Bass use each other to pass the time in Mexico and make a few apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On No Account Brood (Over Your Wrongdoing)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is so rough, I probably shouldn't be posting it yet. But if I keep messing with it, it's only going to get longer!
> 
> Title taken from: "Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean.” - Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

Connor’s voice rang through a motley little camp outside Morelos in indignation, beat upon by late winter sun and still a couple days’ walk from the border. “That’s like two hours from here!”

“We need horses. There will be horses in Nava,” Miles growled, pitching a couple of twigs onto the fire. “Besides, once you’ve got the horses, you’ll be back like _that_.”

“And you expect me to tow three horses while running for my life because I’ve just loosed a bunch of cartel mounts?”

He shrugged. “Tether ‘em in pairs and borrow yourself a rider for the other set. We’ll deal with him when you get back.”

“ _Miles_.” Rachel glanced up from her notebook, legs folded under her, but the protest was mild and little more than the obligatory voice of morality. They really did need horses, no matter the cost, before Nunez got the word out about their valuable identities.

“ _We need horses_ ,” he repeated, gesturing with his thumb to Bass, lying face down on his bedroll. “ _He’s_ in no shape to continue walking.”

Bass grunted into his arms, in either protest or agreement, and Rachel shot him a look over the edge of her book, thin lines of red starting to show through his shirt again. They needed to change those bandages before he got infected. Connor and Miles continued to argue over the logistics of horse thievery as she tucked the notebook back in her bag and stood. She glanced over at Connor standing there with his hands on his hips and rolled her eyes to herself. Cut his hair, swap the sidearm for an iPhone and he’d look _just_ like his father at that age.

“Do you _want_ your dear old dad to die from a whipping _you_ gave him?”

“What do you care? You clearly hate his guts.” Connor started to turn away but she straightened, yanking him back by the collar of his shirt. Snatching a small blade off Miles’ pack and flipping it over in her hand, she pressed the tip to his throat.

“And that’s between _me_ and _him_. Got it?”

Connor stared at her, eyes blown wide though his posture still screamed cocky until it was hoarse. She thought she heard Bass snort in derision as Miles reached around to pluck the knife from her.

“ _Really_ , Rachel?”

She ignored him, arching an eyebrow at Connor until he relented, shoulders slumping. He groaned and shrugged his pack over a shoulder. “ _Fine_ , fine. Any preferences, folks? Appaloosas? Thoroughbreds?”

The three of them ignored his sass but as he moved to stomp off, Rachel called after him, “And bring back some tequila!” She waved the almost empty bottle, alcohol sloshing inside.

Connor rounded on her, a glare etched into his too-pretty features. “You’re _kidding_ , right?”

She rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to chuck the glass bottle at his head. “For _antiseptic_.”

“And for drinking,” Miles and Bass added simultaneously. She pressed her lips together so he wouldn’t see her almost-smirk.

“Well? The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll get back!” she snapped. For just a moment she felt like a mother sending her obstinate teenager to the store for milk. Her throat closed at the thought so she pushed it away.

Connor grumbled at them in Spanish and what little she caught on the wind seemed to be choice words for her in particular. She turned her back on the shit of a kid as he disappeared into a hazy sunset, the early evening just turning chilly. Kicking at Bass’ side and earning herself a pained groan for her trouble, she shook the bottle again. “Come on. Let me see.”

“ _Ow._ No!” He glared up at her over his shoulder, shirt clearly stained with fresh blood, the stubborn asshole. “I’m not letting you near open wounds anywhere on my person.”

“I saved your life, you ungrateful son of a bitch. A _couple_ of times.”

“ _Connor_ saved my life that last time.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s just the _model_ long-lost son-”

“For Christ’s sake, Bass, take your shirt off,” Miles growled, hunched beside the fire.

Bass glared at him but sat up, tugging his shirt off with a wince. It crinkled, dry with blood, as he tossed it aside. “Tell her she doesn’t have to be such a bitch to the kid, would you?”

“Tell him I may not be winning Mother of the Year but I could teach him a thing or two about dealing with his newborn.” Rachel sank to her knees behind him, grabbing Miles’ extra shirt out of the bag and soaking it in tequila. She dabbed at the wounds without warning; he hissed, stuffing a knuckle in his mouth to stifle a yelp.

Miles dropped to his knees next to him, shoving the tequila bottle in his hand and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Come on, drink up.”

Bass lifted the bottle to his lips with a shaking hand, the other fisted in Miles’ shirt. “Your girlfriend’s a sadistic bitch,” he mumbled.

“That’s not- true,” she protested. When she glanced up, they were both staring at her, Bass twisted around to look over his shoulder. Rachel sighed, wringing the cloth in her hands. “Even I don’t want to see you bleed, Bass.”

He scoffed, tequila bottle resting on his cheek. “Since when? You tried to kill me.”

Rachel swallowed hard, grinding her teeth as she swiped at his back again, blood mingling with alcohol to run down the cloth. Over his shoulder, she could feel Miles’ eyes on her.

“What? No witty retort? No threat? You’re losing your touch, you-”

“ _Bass_.” Miles tightened his hand on his shoulder, thumb digging in. “Shut up.”

“No! She’s not some delicate little flower. You know she built a bomb in the basement, right under my nose? Since _when,_ Rachel?”

“This one’s really deep. I should stitch it,” she murmured, running her finger along the edge of a now-clean cut.

Bass twisted, grabbing her wrist. “ _Since when?_ ”

“Since always!” She snapped her jaw shut, glaring at him. “Let go of me. _Now_.”

Neither of them looked up as Miles tried to step between them, but Bass pushed him away with the bottle still clutched in his fist. “Like she said. This is between _me_ and _her_.” He released her slowly, eyebrow raised.

Rachel sighed, shooting a glance up at Miles and then wondered why. She’d never needed him to fight her battles before; even when she was fighting within herself, she’d tried to just end it. Hadn’t asked for his help.

“When I was in high school, I knew this girl. Always helping everybody, volunteered at a shelter on the weekends. Saint. She was driving home from a party one night and she drove off the road, right into a tree. She died on impact, probably fell asleep at the wheel. Everybody said she was in a better place and that we just couldn’t understand God’s plan or some bullshit.

“But her mom ended up in an institution and there were all these lives shattered by one stupid car accident. For years I told myself she didn’t just fall asleep, that somebody must have driven her off the road.”

She laughed, harsh, eyes lined with tears and voice cracking. It felt like she was just rambling but in her head, the head that had recently suffered a severe nervous breakdown she had to remind herself, it was entirely relevant. “How messed up is that? I just wanted all that destruction to be someone’s fault. Never wanted to believe that bad things just _happen_. That good people fall asleep at the wheel and ruin their family’s lives or that innocent little boys get shot to death because they were brave and stupid and in the way-”

Miles’ arms came around her, dragging her to her feet, and she clung to him, shoulders shaking with violent sobs. She breathed him in, whiskey and sweat, fingers fisted in his shirt and Danny’s face swimming in front of her. Vaguely, she could hear them whispering over her head, probably a _look what you did_ and a _you son of a bitch_ , as Bass got to his feet. His hands were big and graceful on her shoulders and he brushed her hair aside, tucking a strand behind her ear.

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

Rachel swallowed hard, chewing the inside of her cheek as she turned towards him, tracts of tears on her face. “ _Thanks_ but I don’t need your permission to hate you.”

“You don’t have to forgive either of us.” Miles’ voice was deep and rough in her ear, arms sliding around her waist as if she hadn’t even spoken. She drew her fingertips over the back of his hand, the scar there raised and grey.

Bass trailed a hand down her arm, goosebumps rising on his skin in the chilled evening air. “You think it’s easy for him?” he asked, nodding to Miles. “Knowing what we did to you?”

She could feel Miles swallow behind her, throat working against the side of her head. Bass was right, this was just between the two of them, and Miles seemed determined to stay out of it though his grip on her tightened. She pressed her lips together, eyes burning as the tears dried. “Doesn’t matter if it was easy.”

He smirked at her, bottle dangling at his side. “Sure it does. Guilt is as close to love as the two of you are ever going to get.”

“ _Bass_.” She wondered for a moment if Miles would hit him if he could convince himself to let go of her.

Rachel lifted a hand to wipe at her eyes. “Come on. Let me stitch you up.” It took more willpower than it probably should have not to rise to his bait but he moved without protest to sit on a stump as she pulled away from Miles and took her father’s makeshift first aid kit out of her bag.

She stood over him, the firelight shining on his shredded back, and threaded a needle. “The point is,” she said finally, breaking the silence, “I never hated you, only what you stood for. Until Danny.”

“And now?”

“And now you need to shut up and hold still,” Miles grumbled, flopping down in front of him.

She watched as Bass braced his hands on his shoulders and wondered how many times one had seen the other stitched up on the battlefield, how many of their scars were shared. The thread dangled from her fingers as she took the tequila bottle from them and pressed it to her lips for just a sip. It burned down her throat, chasing away Danny’s face.

Handing it back, she rested her hand on the uninjured skin at his shoulder and pressed the tip of the needle into him. His jaw clenched but he was prepared for the pain this time and barely reacted through eight stitches except to tighten his grip on Miles and gesture for the tequila.

Rachel tied a neat knot and packed the first aid kit away while Miles helped him back into his shirt. She watched out of the corner of her eye at the way they moved together, hands lingering, no eye contact. When he was sufficiently dressed against the now-chilly night air, Bass reached for her, fingers curling around her wrist and tugging her between them.

She stood there with Miles’ hand on her shoulder, her eyes still red with tears, and the constantly spinning vertigo around her seemed to stop for a moment. “You’re wrong, Bass.” Tugging her wrist free of him, she slid her hand into Miles’. “There’s more than guilt here.”

His eyes flickered down over them, dark clothes and buckled boots, and she felt a little powerful at the cloudy look in his eyes. Reaching out her free hand, she tugged him closer with her fingers in his shirt. “More than guilt here too,” she murmured just before his mouth descended on hers, hands on her waist and a knee between hers.

His lips were cool and dry, beard tickling her cheeks as she wound an arm up around his neck, fingers stroking through curls at the back of his head. She forced herself to relax into him, sinking down against his thigh. Bass smoothed his hands up her sides and just seconds behind him, Miles followed, fingers hitching her black tank up so he could get at the bare skin beneath.

Rachel sighed, shoulders relaxing between them and lips parting only when she was ready, that old too-familiar citrus spice that was so _Bass_ pouring onto her tongue. Her fingers clenched in his hair and his shirt, careless in her avoidance of his wounds; she let Miles hold her up, his mouth fallen open at her temple, hot breath damp and seductive on her skin and his hands cupped under her breasts beneath the thin black fabric.

A log crumbled apart in the fire with a hiss of black smoke and she moaned into his mouth, grinding down against the hard line of his thigh, his tongue teasing the tip of hers. Miles’ fingers skimmed the edge of her waistband, not pushing, just suggesting, asking, begging. She let him think about it for a bit, let him imagine the warmth of bare, wet skin, as she gathered her courage.

She felt sticky with sweat and arousal as she pulled away, their hands clearly reluctant to separate from her. Rachel watched them watch her for a long heartbeat before tugging the black tank up over her head. She tossed it onto a bedroll, bracing her hands on her hips, black bra standing out stark on pale skin. Swallowing hard, her mouth suddenly dry and her nipples hard through the sheer lace, she chewed on her lip, in thought, in overactive nerves.

Miles stepped forward first; she wasn’t sure if she was surprised or just grateful. His hands, those big rough hands, cupped her jaw and he kissed her, somehow more hesitant than Bass but more present, too. There was less exploration, less sinking into each other, because even after twenty years he still remembered what she liked. He drew her bottom lip between his teeth, swept his tongue in her mouth, reduced her to moaning with his hand on her breast and his knee on the inside of her thigh.

Sliding a hand beneath his shirt, her fingers coursed through unseen chest hair; she pressed her palm flat to his chest, urging him back so he sank down beside the old stump, tugging her with him. It was easier with Miles, easier just to pretend they were stupid kids again and he was her off-limits Marine with his hand in her bra and his jeans too tight. Still, lying there across his lap, she could feel Bass’ eyes on her like ice.

Rachel shuddered, grinding her hips down impatiently, wanting nothing between them, as she shot a look over her shoulder at him. He stood by the fire with his hands in his pockets and the firelight on his bare chest, shirt hanging open. Her skin felt tight and stretched and she tipped her head back with a moan. It must have been all the encouragement he needed because somehow suddenly he was behind her, deft, talented fingers unhooking her bra and her jeans so she sat between them looking like a goddamn Maxim cover with her clothes covering as little as possible, the hard nub of a nipple peeking over the edge of her fallen bra, hair wild and lips bruised.

Miles hooked his fingers in her black cotton panties, the angle rough but the intent sending a shiver through her. While Bass stripped out of his own boots and jeans, ever-presumptuous, she bent over Miles, letting him shrug her bra off one-handed and toss it on the bedroll. She met him open-mouthed, tugging his buttons loose and raking her fingernails over his chest. Her breath came quick and shallow and Miles wasn’t much better off, holding her gaze with gunpowder eyes though she knew he longed to dash a look at Bass as he dropped down behind her.

His hands traversed her bare back, pushing her down flat so he could unbuckle her boots. Miles grunted into her mouth as their hips made abrupt contact, his hand trapped between them, insufficient, infuriating friction. Tugging her boots off, Bass moved up to her waist to yank dark denim down her thighs.

Rachel shivered, partly from cold though the fire was orange-warm on her right side. She ducked her forehead to Miles’, watched him wet his lips in anticipation or anxiety, she wasn’t sure. “Is this okay?” she whispered, quiet enough Bass couldn’t hear. She felt ridiculous as soon as the self-conscious words left her mouth, dressed in only a pair of cotton panties in the Mexican wilderness with two men she had alternately despised and desired for more years than she was comfortable admitting, even to herself.

“Little help? With the jeans?” was his only response, and a strained, gravelly one at that.

Her lips twitched into a half-smile and before she could think about the logistics of it, Bass had Miles’ hands free of her body, large wrists trapped in graceful fingers so she could work his pants open. He breathed a sigh of relief beneath her, hard (god, so hard) under her touch and the no-doubt painful line of his zipper.

Bass’ cock slipped between her thighs, dragging across cotton, and she suppressed a whimper, tongue slammed up against the inside of her teeth. His fingers followed, diving beneath the fabric to slick, drenched skin. Miles worked his hand free from Bass and guided her down to pull him out, fingers wrapped around hers around his cock, and she watched his eyes all but roll back as they stroked him together.

“Come on, Bass,” Rachel mumbled, his fingers barely inside her and his body still and quiet behind her.

He tugged her panties aside dutifully, cock rubbing along her, but bent over the curve of her body to ask, “How long’s it been?”

A flush ran over her whole body and Miles grabbed her chin with his free hand, jaw clenched. “You don’t have to answer that,” he whispered into a kiss, tongue tracing her lips.

“ _How long,_ Rach?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, nipping at his bottom lip. “Since you,” she gasped and though she wasn’t sure if Bass knew which of them she meant, it seemed to be good enough because he pushed inside her without warning, sliding in slowly until she was filled and tense and they were all three connected: intimate and reckless in a way only they could achieve.

Rachel gasped, ragged, panting against Miles’ mouth in something that wasn’t quite a kiss. A hand hitched her hip higher and she dropped her forehead to his shoulder, letting herself get lost in the push and pull and shove and groan. Bass painted hot breath down her spine, thrusting up into her, one of her hands still trapped around Miles’ cock, thumb stroking, and the other twisted in the tangled bedroll beneath them. If the ceiling had been made of anything less than night sky, their moans and gasps would be echoing something obscene. As it was, the crackle of the fire seemed all but obscured by the pounding blood in her head and with each thrust, she bit her lip to stifle a whimper.

Miles lifted his hands to push her hair from her face, fingers catching on her jaw and her pulse point. Her hand was slick between them, sweat clinging to the curve of her breast. Bass’ palm skated over her back, gripping her shoulder, his fingertips brushing haphazardly against her clit. She clenched her thighs on Miles’ hips with a moan, sinking in to the warm, slick feeling of three bodies just barely out of sync.

Bass grunted into the curve of her back; she had felt him losing control, felt the rhythm between thrusts grow uncoordinated, her breasts crushed against Miles’ chest. “Rach.” He sucked in a shallow breath, hips bucking into hers. “Rach- Rach- I’m sorry- I-”

Clawing at the strong, tattooed arms under her, she shivered at the sound of even so inconsequential an apology on his lips. “ _Bass-_ ” Miles’ fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back, his mouth sealing over hers, open and insistent as Bass pulled away with a muffled groan. She whimpered into the kiss, empty and unsatisfied, but his hands quickly settled on her hips, though she knew how desperately he wanted to come, guiding her onto Miles’ cock.

Her lungs seized, hands flying flat to his chest, dark hair tickling her palms. _God_ , what a thought, both of them inside her. She thought maybe it should feel degrading, like they were just using her, but it was _right_ : both of them tangled up inside her and each other. Bass came across her thighs, gasping into her shoulder and she thought maybe he was thinking the same thing.

Miles dragged her attention back to him, rocking her hips and moaning against her tongue. She flushed, tangling her fingers in his hair, the moment just theirs for a flash, though it was impossible to ignore Bass’ sticky presence at her back. Some part of her wondered if she would ever want to ignore him, if this tentative future with Miles wouldn’t be possible if Bass wasn’t there to be the scapegoat.

She pushed herself up, back arching, Miles’ hands skimming her ribcage and the soft, tender skin of her breasts. Moaning low in the back of her throat, she drew his fingers down between her legs. He flicked a worn-short fingernail against her clit and Rachel sucked in a sharp breath, sweat slicked between her thighs and his. Bass brought his hands up to her nipples, tweaking, smeared with come and that should have made her cringe but it only brought her closer. She tipped her head back against his shoulder, let them edge her out of her own head, out of the overthinking that always kept her from release.

Rachel came with her nails in Miles’ wrist and her fingers in Bass’ curls, a string of mumbled names and _godyes_ tripping off her tongue. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, hands at her shoulder blades and her ribs, holding her up, bringing her down.

“You’re as fucking gorgeous as ever when you come,” Bass whispered in her ear, drawing her earlobe between his teeth. Her brow knit with a tight, twist of pleasure at that, biting her lip, hand sliding down the rough, unshaved side of his neck and over a scar on his collarbone.

Beneath them, Miles cleared his throat, dark eyes squinted in concentration. “Rach?” She glanced down at him, still foggy, and he clenched big hands on her thighs. “You got to move,” he ground out, gasping around the words.

Rachel yelped, reality digging into her as she scrambled off him, whimpering at the loss. She sprawled onto her bedroll beside him, far too boneless and undone to be of much help, watching through slanted eyes as he wrapped a hand around himself. Before he could get more than a stroke into it though, Bass stopped him with a hand on his wrist. She tugged the blanket up over her naked body, teeth in her lip.

Nothing had ever been so arousing as watching the two of them together, two strong, capable bodies, perfectly attuned to and getting off on each other. It wasn’t like watching Miles touch her in the mirror, hard edges and soft curves, sinking into each other. They were all angles, all violence, even when they were tender. As she watched, Bass knelt between his legs, working a hand over Miles’ cock, their eyes locked together.

That was rare lately, for them to make eye contact. She could understand that. Making eye contact with Bass nearly broke her every time she did it. Her breath caught in her throat as he bent his head, kissing the tip. It had been many, many years since she’d seen this, seen Bass worship at his thighs like this, and though she knew exactly how many years it had been since Miles felt his mouth on him, she easily could have guessed by the way his hands shook and his eyes closed and his face damn near blushed.

Her fingers fisted in the bedroll as Miles’ cock disappeared into that talented, whip-smart mouth, her thighs crossing together under the blankets. Bass’ head bobbed, cheeks hollowing as he sucked and moaned and slid his hands over the hard lines of muscle under him. Together they were a mass of scar tissue and recent wounds and with Miles’ hands running haphazard through already-wild curls, she could barely tell where one or the other left off.

She’d have loved to watch Miles come in his mouth, see them clean each other up, see them taste themselves on the other’s tongue, but it was too intimate. Rachel rolled onto her back, the stars spread above her head, bright white and deep, navy blue. Curling her arms around herself, she listened for the slap-groan-sigh of Miles coming, a pink flush rising on her cheeks. He was so tightly wound all the time, the thought of him letting go with someone always made her feel a little jittery and turned on.

The stars held her attention for several minutes while they kissed and touched and righted themselves, before a large, calloused hand closed around hers. She didn’t have to look to know it was Miles. Turning her head slightly, she caught dark eyes, the lines in his face temporarily smoothed. Her lips lifted into a small smile and she let him tug their bedrolls together, let him roll her into his arms. Somehow, while she was stargazing, they seemed to have gotten dressed because her thigh rubbed against denim under the blankets and Bass had his shirt back on over her neat row of stitches and the surrounding wounds. Her skin tingled knowing she was the only one left naked and debauched.

Resting her head on Miles’ chest, his arm wrapped around her, she watched Bass stoke the fire before returning to his own bed for a few hours of sleep. Connor would be back with the horses and then, middle of the night or no, they’d be on the road again. Quiet settled over the camp without any attempt at conversation, as if the evening had been perfectly normal. Miles’ breathing settled, though she knew if she were to so much as shift against him, he’d be awake in a second.

“Bass?” she whispered. He lay beside them on his stomach, arms folded under his cheek as he stared into the fire. Lifting his head, he turned to look at her, face obscured in shadow.

“What?”

“If I asked you to leave, would you?”

“No.”

“If I asked you to stay away from him, would you?”

“Would you want me to?”

Rachel swallowed hard over the knot that had abruptly formed in her throat. “No.” Night stretched between them for long seconds before she continued. “He’s miserable without you.”

“He’s miserable with me.”

“Less miserable.” She darted a look up at him, noting for the thousandth time how much his eyes were like her own, though she imagined hers were rather bloodshot. “You’re both less miserable together.”

“Don’t you want us to be miserable, Rachel? We’ve done nothing but destroy your life.”

“And I’ve done nothing but destroy everyone else’s. We don’t deserve to be happy, Bass, none of us.” Reaching out a hand, she brushed her fingers over his rough cheek. “But maybe we can be a little less miserable.”

 


End file.
